


Ladoos, Lights, and Aunty Frights

by sconelover



Series: Indian Holidays [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baz Pitch has never heard of fire safety, Cheek-pinching aunties, Crafts, Deepavali, Dessert & Sweets, Diwali, Diyas, Established Relationship, Festival of Lights, Good Wholesome Fun, How many gulab jamun can Simon fit in his mouth?, Idiots in Love, Indian dessert, Indian food, M/M, Mango lassi, Mithai, Painting, Simon Snow is a protective boyfriend, Simon is stuffing his face, There are Aunties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: Simon Snow looks stunning in a grey kurta.Simon and Baz join Penny for a fun Diwali celebration with her family friends. What they didn't expect were terrors like little fires everywhere, nosy aunties, and Simon Snow vs. food buffets.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Indian Holidays [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018413
Comments: 39
Kudos: 112





	Ladoos, Lights, and Aunty Frights

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Diwali, everyone! ❤️ Diwali was actually on Saturday, but as it is a five-day festival, I'm giving myself a bit of leeway here. Diwali (pronounced _Divalee)_ is the Hindu festival of lights and my personal favorite holiday! It's a celebration of the triumph of good over evil and light over darkness, featuring thousands of tea lights, lanterns, firecrackers, and best of all, amazing food and sweets. Read more [here.](https://simmiscorner.wordpress.com/2019/10/27/diwali-the-hindu-festival-of-lights/)
> 
> Check out [my Tumblr post here about Simon's guide to the best Diwali](https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/634867315560923136/simon-snows-guide-to-the-best-diwali)—it's essentially a photo tour of some of my favorite Diwali foods. And scroll to read more about his eating in action. 😂

****

**Baz**

Simon Snow looks stunning in a grey kurta.

He’s not usually one to cover himself in rainbows, unless it’s for pride, but colourful Indian clothes make it nearly impossible not to. The grey material of his garment is silky, split seams on the side swinging open to reveal a pastel-rainbow lining. He’s rolling his cuffs, exposing even more rainbows.

He frowns at the mirror, all tousled hair and squinty eyes. “Yours looks better than mine.”

“Too late to go back now,” I tell him, airily, and he scowls as I smile angelically and flatten out my own midnight-blue and silver kurta with my palms. “And for what it’s worth,” I continue, leaning over to kiss him, “you look fantastic.”

He’s still scowling, but a little less now. “We’ll let Penny’s aunties decide.”

“Ah, the infamous aunties,” I say, smoothening one of his stray curls. “I’ve never met them. Should I be scared?”

“They’re ruthless,” he says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Pure evil.”

I cross my arms. “You used to say the same about me. I’m not sure what kind of message _that_ communicates…”

Simon snorts a laugh. “Not the same. I swear.”

“Mhm, sure.”

* * *

**Simon**

“Okay,” I tell Baz, squeezing his hand, “if we encounter an aunty, just stay calm and follow my lead.”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

“Not at all.” I shudder. “One time your aunty Anita _pinched_ my _cheeks.”_

“They’re very pinchable,” Baz supplies, helpfully.

“And,” I add, turning to him, “no going even remotely near the sparklers. Or the firecrackers. Or the candles.”

Baz heaves an almighty sigh.

“I’m serious!” I insist. “This place is a vampire’s worst nightmare, look at it!”

The grand banquet hall of the Indian restaurant we’re at has been cleared out and draped with enough decorations for a wedding. (Or India’s biggest holiday, I guess.) Tealights in colourful clay holders form a glowing outline around the room, and high cocktail tables feature even more candles.

We walk in through an archway of red and orange flowers, threaded with string lights. Above our heads in the room, lanterns hang everywhere like mistletoe. 

“Aunties,” Penny announces, not three seconds after we enter. “Brace yourselves—”

“Penelope!” A woman in an orange dress bustles over and embraces her. Four more aunties follow behind her, already holding up their massive iPhones. “Happy Diwali!”

“Happy Diwali, aunty,” she replies, muffed in the woman’s shoulder.

“And you’ve brought your friends! Happy Diwali, Simon.” She kisses both my cheeks, then pulls back and waggles a finger at me. “You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?”

I attempt a grin as Baz cracks up behind me. “‘Course not, aunty…”

I have no idea who this woman is.

“Piall,” she responds with a knowing look, then herds us not-so-subtly towards a photo backdrop of colourful draped fabric against one wall. “Come, come, let’s take some pictures.”

“How did she remember my name?” I whisper to Penny as an additional aunty in a blue dress shoves us together. 

“They work in mysterious ways,” she says.

We dutifully smile for a few pictures, which Aunty Piall promises to WhatsApp us later. The other aunties form a huddle, calling out artistic direction (“Move left! No, no, my left. Other left!” “Fix your kurta, _beta.”_ “Penelope, you really must learn to do your hair!”)

“Now just the beautiful couple!” Piall calls out, waggling her fingers at Penny and Baz.

We all burst out laughing.

* * *

**Baz**

I know Simon loves me—I _know_ it—but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish he’d look at me the way he looks at Indian food.

He’s positively fawning over the appetizers; his plate holds a pyramid of samosas, a tower of tikkis, and enough _chaklis_ to feed a family of chimeras. He sets it all down on a table, where it wobbles dangerously. The tikkis tilt in a greasy imitation of a certain Italian landmark.

“You know they’ll be serving dinner, right?” I say.

Simon waves me off and mumbles something through a mouthful of potatoes that I can’t hope to understand. 

Penelope turns to me and translates. “He said it’s a different compartment.”

“He does seem to be able to ingest an endless amount of Indian food,” I say. I steal one of the various fried foods from his plate and take a bite. He bats my hand away—whether from the food or the candlelit centerpiece my arm is hovering over, I’m not sure.

“I mean.” Simon holds up a tikki, which from what I can tell is potatoes mashed into a disc shape and deep-fried. “Chips can’t even _compare_ to this.”

“Why _is_ it all fried?” I ask Penny.

She shrugs. “I know about as much as you when it comes to all this.”

“You’re _Indian.”_

“I’m a coconut,” she says. She waves a hand over her face. “Brown on the outside, white on the inside.”

I hide a laugh behind my hand. 

“No, really,” she says, “I’m just here because Mum’s friends drag us out—they claim they only see her once a year, and this is it—and she only _has_ Indian friends in the first place because of _her_ mum…”

Speak of the devil—Mitali appears beside our table, trailed by a gaggle of women. “Oh, you made it!” she exclaims. She’s draped in a gorgeous green sari, embroidered all over and studded with crystals, and holds a cosmo in one hand. “I made Diwali a holiday at Watford this year,” she tells us conspiratorially. “We have enough Indian students to justify it, but really I just _desperately_ needed a three-day weekend. Anyway— Happy Diwali.”

Her friends introduce themselves, hugging us like they’ve known us for years, not seconds. One aunty exclaims to Penelope, “Oh my goodness, how big you’ve gotten!”

Penny pastes on a tight smile and allows her cheek to be pinched. Simon tries so hard not to laugh he goes red in the face.

“The last time I saw you, you were only _this_ tall!” The aunty hovers her hand somewhere near her waist. “My, how you’ve grown!”

Penelope looks on the verge of exploding. I hide a laugh inside a cough, then lean away from the aunties.

“So, how is university?”

Simon and Mitali exchange a look. The next second, they’re gone. What….

* * *

**Simon**

“Escape while you can,” Professor Bunce mutters, steering me away. “I’m here for the free food, not the company.”

“Same, honestly,” I tell her. 

Penny’s mum and I have had an interesting… relationship over the years. She never really liked me. Probably because I was constantly getting Penny almost-killed, which I guess I can understand, from a mum’s perspective. 

Anyway, now that I don’t live with them, and I’m not Penny’s accomplice to crimes in America, and there’s no imminent threat of me blowing things up, she likes me a lot better. And after she became headmistress at Watford we found out that we actually have something in common—an obsession with Cook Pritchard’s sour cherry scones.

And all other sweets. 

We’re at the _mithai_ display. There are ten tiers, like a wedding cake. 

I load up my plate as Mitali explains the different types to me.

 _Kaju katli,_ diamond-shaped cashew milk sweets topped with real pounded silver. _Ladoo,_ balls of sweetened gram flour; _burfi,_ squares of white, yellow, pink, golden. There’s a whole array of colours and shapes, stuffed with almonds or rolled in coconut. I pick up bright yellow ovals topped with pistachio slivers, gritty orange spheres, and even a few that look like tiny slices of watermelon.

I wave Baz over as we settle at a nearby table, but he shakes his head minutely. He and Mitali historically haven’t gotten along… for valid reasons, I guess. But I can’t believe he’d choose _aunties_ over interacting with her. The aunty in the blue sari is smiling at Baz and looks like she’s gearing up for a massive cheek-pinch.

I hear her asking about university. She says something slightly judgmental, hidden as a compliment. And then out comes the dreaded claw… 

Baz closes his eyes against the inevitability that is cheek-pinching aunties.

* * *

**Baz**

There are other activities at this event, I’m sure. Penelope mentioned diya-painting, firecrackers in a courtyard somewhere, and dancing. 

I, for one, would love to dance.

But my idiotic boyfriend only has eyes for one thing, and it’s the constant flow of food.

Again—I’m not feeling the love. I’m feeling more like I should stomp my feet and cry for attention. (I obviously won’t. But I want to.) I could say something like _it’s just biryani, Snow, not the love of your life—_ except I’m worried they’re the same thing.

I’m always second place. I’ve made peace with it. Mostly.

“Did you try the ladoos?” he says through a mouthful of paneer tikka. (Always talking with his mouth full. It’s practically a requirement of meals with him at this point.) He swallows and wipes his face off with the back of his hand. “They’re so good. Gritty, like sand.”

I put my naan down to stare at him. “Why would I want to eat something that’s ‘like sand’?”

“No, like—” He frowns. “Sand, but in a good way. Haven’t you ever wanted to eat sand? When you were small?”

“What? No. That’s ridiculous.”

“Not even once?” he says. “Like, you see some sand, and you squish it in your hands, and you just wanna– well, you wanna pop it in your mouth, don’t you?”

“I’ve never had the inclination.”

He hands me a perfectly round, golden-brown ball, dusted with ground cardamom. “You’ll understand when you try it.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand the appeal of _sand,_ Snow—”

Simon rolls his eyes. “Eat the fucking ladoo _,_ Baz.”

I… eat the fucking ladoo.

It’s amazing. Gritty like a sugar cube, but it’s soft and buttery and gives way easily. It’s so sweet with just a hint of spice, and it melts in the mouth.

Actually– it’s _exactly_ like biting into sand. Delicious sand.

I almost tell Simon, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

* * *

**Simon**

The aunties urge me to eat, and I’m all too happy to oblige. Penny walks back to the buffet with me when I go to get seconds. “It actually, genuinely makes them happier than anything in the world,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Like, their life won’t be complete until their children and all their friends’ children _eat.”_

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of silver and black—Baz, attempting to politely protest as an aunty practically pushes him towards the food. 

“You’re not eating, _beta?”_

“No, really, I’m fine—”

“No, no. Look at you! Too skinny. How will you grow up to be big and strong?”

“I’m already grown up,” he says. “And plenty strong.” Baz doesn’t take well to being mothered—he gets all tetchy. (For good reason, obviously.) 

I know it’s over when Vishal uncle shows up. He’s Penny’s family friend who owns the restaurant. He’s bald as an egg, but carries himself with the air of someone who used to be incredibly handsome when he had hair. “You know, _beta,”_ he booms, “I made all this food specially for Diwali!”

Baz looks massively uncomfortable.

“Maybe we should go rescue him?” I tell Penny.

She plants her feet and grins. “Nah, it’s entertaining watching him be tortured.” 

“And I’ll be so sad if everyone doesn’t enjoy it,” Vishal continues, arms spread wide.

"Ah, ye olde guilt trip,” Penny sighs. “Time-honored with proven success.”

Baz Pitch is an intimidating person on the best of days and absolutely terrifying at worst. 

And yet, he cowers in the face of the encroaching aunties and uncles. He puts his hands up in a show of surrender. “All right,” he says, “I’m going.”

When he finally turns, he sees me and Penny standing there watching the show—we might as well be eating popcorn—and flips us off, murderously.

I blow him a sarcastic little kiss.

* * *

**Baz**

I always knew Simon Snow would be the death of me, but I thought it might be something dramatic. Sword through the chest; stake through the heart. Fire and flame or explosion. Bloody _heartbreak._

But never did I predict that death by Simon Snow would come in the form of this lovable moron _(my_ lovable moron) turning to Penelope Bunce and saying, “How many gulab jamuns do you think I can fit in my mouth?”

I watch and try not to pass out as he starts stuffing his cheeks.

* * *

**Simon**

I’ve got four gulab jamun in and counting. Two in my right cheek, two on the left.

Baz is staring at me over his mango lassi like he can’t believe his life has come to this. Like figuring out what’s wrong with me is something he’ll never have enough time for.

I wink at him and shove another gulab jamun in my mouth.

Yeah, I see the dirty joke in it—I’m stuffing my mouth with balls, after all—but Penny bet me a tenner I couldn’t fit seven and I’m determined to win. 

Also, I’m enjoying making Baz blush. It’s a rare occurrence.

Gulab jamun are _delicious._ They’re perfectly round balls of sweet dough, lightly fried and drenched in rose syrup. I think they may be my second favourite thing I’ve ever eaten (after sour cherry scones) (they’ve beaten out roast beef by a long shot). 

I poke number six into my mouth and Baz chokes on his drink.

“We’re in public, Snow.”

“Good wholesome fun,” I try to say through a full mouth, but it’s totally unintelligible.

* * *

**Baz**

Mango lassis are _much_ better than unicorn frappucinos, just for the record.

* * *

**Penny**

No more aunties. I swear to Morgana, if one more person asks me when I’m getting married or makes a passive aggressive comment about my weight I will scream. I drag Simon and Baz to a small table by the wall and cast _Nothing to see here_ on the whole damn corner of the room.

“Crafts,” Simon says, looking down.

“What?”

He holds up a tiny acrylic paint set with a toothpick-sized brush. 

Baz groans. “We’re not doing _crafts,_ we’re grown adults—”

Simon sets down a second paint set right in front of him, along with a blank clay diya. “Adults can paint. Watford didn’t have art class—”

“The Mage’s fault,” Baz interjects.

“—so we’re doing it now.” 

“Fine, but I’m lighting the candles when we’re done.”

“No, you’re not.” 

Simon’s not paranoid exactly, but he’s… protective. When he and Baz moved in together last year, he replaced Baz’s entire scented candle collection with electric ones. (Baz was furious.)

“Just a little flame—”

“You’re _flammable.”_

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have brought me to—what’s it called?—oh yeah, the _Festival of Lights.”_

They work in tandem, elbowing each other as they start painting. (I don’t know why they don’t just switch sides; Baz is left-handed.) Simon steals a sip of Baz’s mango lassi, and Baz sighs and points at the extra straw that he’d gotten for that very purpose.

I can’t paint for shit, so I read a small flyer that’s been left next to the diyas. It describes the origins of the holiday, which tickles at the back of my mind—I’m sure my Nani told me the story at some point. My family’s never been religious. We celebrate Diwali for the sake of celebration, like how other people do Christmas. (I mean, we do Christmas as well.) (It’s the best of both worlds, honestly.)

And Diwali’s origins are more mythical than religious, in any case; the story comes from the Hindu epic the _Ramayana._ There are a few statues of the goddess Lakshmi around the room—she’s the patron of wealth and prosperity. (I should know; I rake in 200 or 300 pounds from my relatives each year.)

“Stars,” Baz is saying, gazing fondly at Simon’s diya. “Like in our room.”

“Yeah. I thought it’d be…” Simon smiles shyly up at him. “Y’know. Lights, and holiday magic and all…” 

They are quite literally making heart eyes at each other. Like cartoon characters with Cupid flying above their heads. There may even be an explosion of rainbows.

It’s so tender, I feel like I shouldn’t even be looking. I turn away so they can’t see my smile and walk away in search of the chai. (The one vestige of Indian culture we maintain in my house—Mum’s obsessed with the stuff.)

But of course, I’m ambushed before I make it halfway across the room. “Penelope! Happy Diwali,” Bindu Aunty says, crushing me in an Indian-clothes scented hug. (They have this distinctive aroma—I can never place it.) “So… your mum tells me you’ve got yourself a boyfriend…”

Nicks and Slick. I should have known better. I should have accepted my fate as a third wheel. (Long, long ago.) (I’ve been the third wheel since fifth year, at least.)

Anyway, how to even begin to explain the chaos that is _Shepard_ to an aunty?

* * *

**Simon**

Baz is so handsome.

I mean, he’s always handsome. But especially today, and especially in a kurta. I don’t know why the silky, slightly shimmery deep blue garment is doing something for me, but it makes his shoulders look so nice. His hair’s grown out, curling around the high collar; and all the silver veins in the fabric set off his eyes brilliantly.

Maybe it’s not appropriate to be thirsting after my very fit boyfriend at a family-friendly religious-adjacent holiday event, but here we are. Anyway, he keeps staring at my forearms as we paint, smiling at the rainbows or absently touching my back, so I think we’re even.

“You should wear this every day,” he says, echoing my own thoughts.

“Guess we’ll have to get ourselves invited to more Indian events.”

He blows on his diya, which features a forest and flames—I guess we’re both in a nostalgic mood today—and sets it down on the table. He glances at me, sideways. “Just a little one,” he says.

Baz wouldn’t know fire safety if it came to his school and gave a presentation. (Which Watford didn’t have, to be clear.) His wrist is centimetres from the stack of candles in the centre of the table. 

I push them away from him. “Fine. A baby one.”

He flicks up a fire at the tip of his finger—true to his word, it’s miniscule—and lights our diyas. There are little embellished labels you can sit them on so no one steals them. Baz picks up the pen and scribbles out our names.

I don’t know why this is the thing that fills me with an aching tenderness—seeing _Simon_ and _Baz_ written out right next to each other beneath our own diyas and flickering flames. I guess because it’s a physical reminder of _us,_ together. So I don’t question it. I just kiss him. 

(I might pay for it later—the aunties have hawk-eyes everywhere.) (But it’s good, for now.)

He grins at me, all the little fires around us dancing in his eyes. “More dessert?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [twokisses,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twokisses/pseuds/twokisses/works) [CSCB,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) and [ashspren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren) for beta reading! ❤️
> 
> Thank you to [selkie](https://subparselkie.tumblr.com/) for the honorary alternate title:  
> two ladoodes chillin at a party zero feet apart bc they're gay


End file.
